


The Future Tells You Nothing

by moonlitserenades



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: ...Sorry, Gen, M/M, the summary is more flippant than the fic will ever be.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitserenades/pseuds/moonlitserenades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras's name gets called at the Reaping. Grantaire volunteers to take his place. Everything goes to hell rather quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras feels a sort of savage triumph when he hears his name called. He’d prepared for this. Planned for it. Wanted it, even. And now, his face is stoic—carved from marble—as he ascends the steps toward Jean Valjean. As he accepts his impending death.

He stands on the platform and raises his chin proudly, defiantly. There is not a sound from the audience, for a moment or two; his triumph burns brighter as he sees the noticeable distress on some faces. He has been strategizing all year, ensuring that his was a face most of the district would know well.

And then, in a moment, everything shatters.

The “I volunteer!” is shouted, a voice that breaks mid-word, and it’s Grantaire  
and Grantaire is shoving through the crowds and he’s trembling hard but his eyes are clear—maybe clearer than Enjolras has ever seen them  
and he stumbles as he climbs the stairs  
and Enjolras catches him, numb and instinctive  
and he’s still shaking, a full-body tremor that he cannot stop as he clutches Enjolras’s hands.

“Don’t,” Grantaire hisses close to his ear, and the desperation in his voice hits Enjolras like an ice-cold slap to the face. “Don’t, I know what you’re planning and I can’t let you. You’ll do so much more alive.”

Enjolras tries to speak, but Valjean is saying something else and people are moving forward as though to physically remove him from the platform so that they can continue the reaping; but, no, not now. Now is not the time to make a scene, not if he wants one more chance to speak to Grantaire. So he raises his hands in a wordless gesture of surrender, for the first and only time in his life, and walks slowly back down to the audience.

He barely hears the name that is called, only sees that it makes what little color had remained to Grantaire’s cheeks drain from it, and that he sways alarmingly on his feet. And Éponine Thenardier climbs the steps to the platform and grabs his hand so hard both their knuckles whiten.

It is at that point that Grantaire’s eyes find his again—dark and terrified, but determined, and blazing with a passion that Enjolras has never seen before. He knows exactly what he’s done, and no matter what happens now, he will not regret it. 

They let him in to see Grantaire—for a moment, he had worried that they might try to stop him. They would not have succeeded, of course, but he needs as much time as he can get.  
“What were you thinking?” he demands immediately, crossing the room in a few quick strides, too close to Grantaire. “I never asked you—I don’t want you to die for me.”

“I don’t remember asking your opinion,” says Grantaire, and he’s trying to be flippant, except that his voice is trembling. “I’ll die if I please, thanks.”

It makes a lump rise to Enjolras’s throat, and he shakes his head. “But—but I don’t want you to.”

“Be serious, Enjolras,” he says, and now that Enjolras thinks on it, he doesn’t remember Grantaire ever having used his name before. “Life is wasted on the likes of me, anyway.”

“Don’t say that—”

“I have a very finite number of words left to me. I’m not going to waste them lying to you.” He brings one trembling hand up to caress Enjolras’s cheek. “There is so much that I never told you.”

“Tell me now,” Enjolras urges, suddenly desperate.

“I haven’t got the time.” He smiles, ruefully. “You’ll make such a difference, Enjolras. Try to remember me sometimes, won’t you?”

“You’ll be back,” Enjolras insists, stubbornly. “You’ll see it. I’ll do it for you, and you’ll be there to watch me.”

The doors fly open—and Enjolras, possessed of something he cannot name, shakes off the grips of men several times larger than he is, and pulls Grantaire to him in a brief, crushing, desperate kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel is introduced. Grantaire gives an interview.

The man’s name is Bahorel. He won the games seven years ago with nothing but his bare hands, and on his arms, he bares 23 tattoos—one for each murdered tribute. It isn’t even 7:30 in the morning, but there’s booze in his orange juice and a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He had demanded that he meet the two tributes separately, so Éponine is somewhere else and Grantaire is alone.

“So what are your skills?” he asks, taking a long pull of his cigarette and blowing smoke rings across the table.

“Don’t have them,” says Grantaire quietly, and Bahorel rolls his eyes, scoffing. 

“Everyone has a skill. I don’t have time for you to do the false modesty bullshit, so I’m going to ask you again: what. are. your. skills.”

“It’s not false modesty,” Grantaire says, clenching his hands into fists so hard that his nails draw blood from his palms. “I’m an artist. I’ve never been much good at—at hunting, or foraging, or any of that. It doesn’t matter anyway, I don’t intend to come back.”

Bahorel’s face is completely inscrutable, and he is silent for so long that Grantaire almost gets up and walks away from the table. But eventually, he speaks up, in a very different voice. Almost gentle. “Why did you volunteer?”

“Because—because I don’t want to live in a world that doesn’t have Enjolras in it.” His voice shakes, and he stares resolutely down at the table. 

Bahorel nods slowly. “Look, I’m going to lay it all out on the line for you. Your Enjolras—do you really think they’re not already watching him? That they’re not waiting for the moment he steps one toe too far over the line to take him down? That they wouldn’t have been hoping to pull his name the other day, to get him the hell out of their hair?

“You volunteering in his place fucked up the Capitol’s plan, and I’m all for that, but. Enjolras has made quite a name for himself already. They want him gone. But I’ve heard enough about him to know that he’ll be more careful, if there’s a chance that you’ll come home. Your putting your life on the line in his place is going to be enough that he’s not going to risk throwing his life away for his cause—not unless something happens to you.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” His hands are shaking now. He sips his orange juice in the hopes of steadying them, and wonders if he could ask Bahorel for some of that liquor. 

“While you’re alive—while there is a hope of you coming home—he will be more cautious. He’ll want to pay his debt to you, and he can’t do that if he’s dead. But the second you die, Grantaire, he’s going to want justice for you. And if he perishes in the attempt, well. He does it trying to honor your sacrifice.”

“How do you know?”

“You don’t come out of the Games alive without learning how to read people damn well.” He stubs the cigarette out on the side of his plate, getting ash in the eggs and, apparently, not noticing at all. “I’ve seen him around. He’s that martyring type. Anyway.” He drains his glass, splashes more booze into the cup, and shoves it across the table at Grantaire. “You need this more than I do. You also need an alliance. You need the people. Worry about that before we find your new friends.”

“He’d’ve been good at that, not me—”

“You’re going to be good at that. The Capitol eats up that humble, aw-shucks routine you’ve got going for you just as much as someone as charming as Enjolras—and when you tell them why you volunteered….well, there’s nothing they love quite so well as a doomed love story.”

“I can’t—”

“You don’t have a choice.”

And that’s how Grantaire finds himself onstage in front of several million people, trying not to throw up as he waits for the question. He’s already shaken hands, exchanged false pleasantries, cracked a few weak jokes. And now, it’s coming, and he couldn’t be further from ready.

“Grantaire!” Caesar Flickerman exclaims, too bright. Too cheerful. “Our only volunteer tribute. Any chance you want to talk about that? Your motivations? Your thoughts, now that you’re here?”

First question. Better that than beating around the bush, I guess.

“Well,” he says, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “I don’t regret volunteering. And I won’t, no matter what happens now. Because…because the truth is, I’ve been in love with Enjolras for years. And I’d rather be in that arena, fighting for my life and knowing he’s safe, than anything else.”

Gasps. Sudden bursts of whispering. Caesar Flickerman pats his hand, looking sympathetic. “Does he know?”

“He does now,” Grantaire says, biting his lip.

“So you never told him?” Caesar’s eyes are wide, and it almost looks as though they’re filled with tears.

“I couldn’t. But.” He forces a smile. “I’ve got nothing left to lose now, right?”

“Well, I’m sure I’m not alone in saying, I hope you get the opportunity to see him again and talk about it.”

“Thank you,” he says, numbly.

“Is there anything you’d like to say to him? Right now?”

“Just in case?” His smile goes wry. “Just…that I’m sorry I never told him. And—and that no matter what happens to me, I won’t be sorry for taking his place, knowing that he’s out there somewhere, safe. And that I wish him well.”

It’s the closest he can do give to a warning.

Thousands of miles away, Enjolras sits centimeters from his television, his head buried in his hands, trying to remember how to breathe without feeling like his heart is breaking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, alliances created. The Games draw ever closer.

Training is rough for several reasons; not the least of these is that Bahorel keeps pushing the idea of an alliance, and it seems horrifyingly depressing to attempt to make friends with people you’ll either have to kill, or who will eventually kill you. The other reason is Éponine, who seems not only to understand the wisdom of this strategy, but to be much more capable of actually participating in it. She has already befriended the puppy-faced male tribute from District Three (the girl from Three seems completely disinterested in everyone around her. In fact, Grantaire’s not sure she actually knows where she is or why she’s there.)—Grantaire can’t remember his name, and knows only that he seems desperately interested in adding both tributes from District One to his tenuous alliance with ‘Ponine. He’s happy for her, kind of. Especially if she can actually succeed in getting Careers on her side. In the meantime, though, he’s focusing on other things.

Training has taught him a lot about himself, which is surprising and entirely unexpected. He’s quicker than he’d thought, and better at climbing. Sneakier. Which is good, probably. He could creep up behind someone and knife them in the back, and they might never even know he was there.

As convenient as it is, he hates the thought. There’s no honor in winning that way, if he could actually manage it.

His own conversations with the other tributes have been minimal. How does one decide who’s worth trusting in a literally life-and-death situation? 

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits to Éponine, after the first day of training. They’re both sprawled across her bed; her head rests on his shoulder, and he plays idly with her hair. 

“Hmm,” she says, biting her lip. “Look…we’re already friends, R. I’m going to do whatever I can do to keep you safe in this God-forsaken place—”

“I know, and it’s the same for me—”

“You’re not listening.” She sits up, dislodging his hand. “There are two ways we can go about this, and either one could help us both.”

He props himself up on his elbows and raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“One: you actually come talk to Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac—because I think they’ve finally agreed to this whole thing, though God only knows why.”

“Incidentally, what’s going on with Two this year? They almost always ally with One, not that I’m complaining if they’re willing to work with you instead. Or us. Or whatever.” He shakes his head. “The fucking Games haven’t even started and I already hate the way they’re making me think.”

“The tributes from Two will be easier to take down without the rest of the Careers,” Éponine says, almost monotone. “I was thinking that.” She sighs. “There are rumors about One this year. That they didn’t do their Reaping properly. That it was staged, but they had already decided who they were going to put in. That’s why they didn’t have their usual five thousand people attempting to volunteer.”

“Is that true?”

“I don’t fucking know,” she says, exasperated. “They’d never admit to it. But probably. They haven’t denied it either, and having trained with them today, I wouldn’t be surprised. There’s not much they can’t do.”

“Great.” He flops backward again. “What’s option two?”

“Option two…” She closes her eyes. “I’m not sure I like option two, but here it is, the way I see it: I let you do your own thing, make your own allies, and tell mine that you’re no competition at all. That you’d be easy to take out, and that they should worry about everyone else first. Then you and I could make our own plan to take them out in the middle of the night or something.”

“It’d ruin whatever alliance I had made,” he says, thoughtfully. “No way in hell they’d trust me after that. Unless they didn’t know, or I had already broken mine. Which would mean that we’d be on our own, the two of us against whoever was left…so we’d have to time it really carefully.” It’s probably doable, actually, and the idea of that is almost more welcome than the concept of trying to force himself into an already-forming alliance. And the tributes from One don’t seem like they’d be particularly welcoming to someone like him—pale and willowy and gorgeous, they’d spent the whole training period together, systematically destroying every obstacle in their path. He’s not surprised they warmed to ‘Ponine—she’s cunning and sly in a totally different way. But him? He doesn’t even want to be his own ally, and he’s pretty sure they’ll see straight through him.

“It’s messy. And complicated. Probably too complicated.”

“I don’t know,” he says again, and presses his palms to closed eyes, presses so hard it makes lights burst into sight as though he’d been staring too long at the sun. If he’s being honest with himself, he’d been so distracted by the whole shit-show with Enjolras and his own training woes that he’d been mostly banking on Éponine taking care of herself. Which, of course, makes him feel like the worst person in the world. God, what does it make him, to let her take care of him like this and have nothing to do for her in return?

The next day ends up making the decision for him. He’s working on identifying edible plants and failing epically when the boy from District Eight comes up beside him. “Not that one,” he says softly as Grantaire reaches toward a handful of berries. “That’s nightlock. It’s darker, and it bleeds its color on your hands when you touch it. You want the one two to the right.”

Grantaire looks at the expert standing behind the table, who nods. “Thank you.”

The boy shrugs. “No problem. I’m Jean Prouvaire. Jehan. I’m from District Eight.”

“Grantaire. From Six.” 

Jehan reaches out a hand, tentative, and Grantaire—despite every voice in his head screaming that this is probably the worst idea ever—shakes it. It’s a wordless agreement; Grantaire likes that they don’t bother putting it into words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you'll find me on tumblr with the same url as my username.   
> Also, quick change: because I've decided Grantaire and co. are not from District Twelve, I've changed it so that Effie is no longer involved...instead she has been replaced with one Jean Valjean. (That will be explained later.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training finishes, and the Grantaire and Éponine get their scores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I took a break for Christmas, because I didn't really want to write sads, and I was pretty sure no one was going to want to read them. 
> 
> When we get to the actual games, I'm going to start incorporating the points of view of other characters...please feel free to tell me who you'd like to see more of. You can comment here, or go to my tumblr (my url is the same as my username) and chat with me about it there.
> 
> Incidentally, I'm incorporating rule 63 Montparnasse and Combeferre, because that will come up with at least one of them this chapter. Thought you'd want to know. :)

It turns out that having Jehan as an ally is sort of great. He’s got the naïve, guileless thing that Bahorel had seemed to believe Grantaire had going for him, except that that’s just who he is. (Or, he’s just a much better actor than Grantaire will ever be, but he doesn’t seem to be faking.) Either way, it draws people to him, and by extension, Grantaire. During their second training day, Jehan introduces Grantaire to the tributes from District Eleven—they introduce themselves as Bossuet and Musichetta, and immediately agree to train with Grantaire and Jehan. (Musichetta is deadly with a knife, and Bossuet makes the best traps Grantaire has ever seen, including the Careers. Which is good, because he’s not much of an athlete. Grantaire finds himself hoping that Bossuet doesn’t end up tripping into one of his own traps.)

“You’ve got District Eleven, and the boy from Eight,” Bahorel says flatly later. “Éponine has a Career district and the boy from Three, and while I’m not quite sure he’s going to be much use, who do you think is in a better position here?”

“Shouldn’t you be happy for her?” Grantaire demands, pinching the bridge of his nose and praying to who or whatever is out there that it stops the impending migraine. “You’re supposed to be mentoring her as well, you know.”

“I am happy for her, Grantaire, but realistically, she needed them less than you did. She came to me less suicidal, more calculating, and with way more of an idea what the fuck she was doing. I know she’s your friend. So why the fuck are you not getting in on her alliance?”

“Because I’m not her, I can’t fake it like she can. I don’t know how to ally with people I think are fucking terrifying. I’m sorry if you think I’m chickenshit, but no matter how hard I try, I’m probably going to die. I would like to at least get to choose the people I have around me when it happens.”

Bahorel closes his eyes for a moment. Nods, slowly. “I respect that. Do you have a plan?”

Grantaire makes a quiet, desperate sound and buries his face in his hands. “No.”

“Right. You’re gonna have to put on a show for the bigwigs, after training is done tomorrow. Show them your skills so that they can score you out of twelve. The higher your score is, the more likely you’ll get decent sponsors. But. The higher your score is, the bigger a threat everyone else thinks you are, which I am well fucking aware you don’t want. So here’s what I’m going to say: aim for middle of the road. Aim for a six or seven, so at least you’re not a laughingstock, but you’ll be able to hide it out most of the time.”

“Okay,” he says, instead of what if I can’t manage a six? “Thank you.” 

Bahorel doesn’t say anything.

The following day, Grantaire finds himself hyper-aware of what all his fellow tributes are doing. Watches Cosette and Courfeyrac practice sparring with each other (allowed, supposedly, because they are from the same district and not aiming to cause harm, though that just adds fuel to the rumors about One cheating this year). Watches Éponine’s archery practice proudly. Watches for a long time, and almost forgets his own practice. Time seems to speed up the closer they get to the actual games, and the more he wants it to slow down; and before he knows it, it’s time to go back into the training area, alone.

To convince a bunch of rich men that he knows how to stay alive.

He wants to throw up, or cry, or scream. Maybe break something. Maybe he should break something. Maybe he should just start destroying everything breakable, start throwing things at the judges tables and hope that a knife finds its mark, or an axe. Maybe he could kill all of them before they can be responsible, however indirectly, for the death of twenty-three people. Twenty-three children. He doesn’t want to feel like a child, Grantaire. He’s seventeen. (He’d almost made it. One more year and he never would have had to know what this was like. Fuck.) But that’s what they are. All of them, children. And he’s never felt younger in his life.

He tries to breathe, which is harder than it should be. He wonders about that liquor Bahorel had had a few days ago, not for the first time. The other day had been the first time he’d ever had alcohol, but he can’t seem to stop thinking about it, remembering the burn as it had gone down his throat, and how it had spread a sort of comforting warmth in his stomach. He wonders if it might help if he drank enough. If it would calm him down, soothe his frayed nerves, stop his hands from shaking. But that’s a dangerous line of thought, really, and not one he’s likely to find the answer to. He shakes his head, and goes back to staring at the door and waiting for the female tribute from five (a diminutive girl whose dark hair stands in stark contrast with her snow-white skin and cherry lips that always seem to be curved up in the slightest and most dangerous of smirks. She’d gotten in trouble on the first day of training for getting into an altercation with the girl from Eight, when she’d lifted a blade from the other girl’s back pocket).

“R?”

He turns. Éponine is standing a few feet away, her hair pulled back and her arms wrapped tight around her own waist. She looks small. It makes Grantaire’s chest hurt, so he crosses to her in three quick steps and wraps her in his arms. She stiffens for a moment and then, all at once, clings to him. “We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers, and he knows it’s bullshit and so does she, but neither of them knows how the hell they’re supposed to get through the rest of the day.

“Go get ‘em,” she says, and squeezes once, and lets him go.

The girl from Five—Mont-something, Grantaire thinks—is standing there when he turns around. She flicks big, dark eyes over him, curls her lip dismissively, and says, “They’re ready for you.” 

Fuck. He walks inside, slowly. As he enters, someone laughs, a loud, booming HA that he knows has nothing to do with him, but still makes him flinch. They don’t seem to care about him much—someone tosses off a question (“which one are you, then?”), he answers. Someone else says, “Well, go ahead,” and he goes. 

He goes to the plant station first, relatively confident that he’s learned enough from Jehan to manage alright. Throws a few knives, though he knows he’s not nearly as good as Musichetta. Most of them at least hit the dummy, which was better than he’d dared expect. And then, a last-ditch effort and the only thing he’s really sure he’ll be good at, he camouflages his hands and forearms, and climbs for a while. He’s up at the top when they call time; in a rare moment of boldness, he jumps down and lands on his feet. It’s a grab-bag of mediocrity, mostly, but he doesn’t feel totally useless when he leaves. 

He winks at Éponine as he walks by, a gesture of playful lightheartedness that he doesn’t feel. But at least it makes her smile a little. 

He writes letters, when he gets back to his room. Letters to his parents, his sister. A letter to Bahorel, apologizing for being the way he is. But mostly, letters to Enjolras, rambling, ridiculous letters painting useless pictures of an impossible future. 

He tears them all to shreds when Valjean comes up to get him for dinner. Goes downstairs only so that Éponine won’t feel abandoned. They mostly just push the food around on their plates anyway, despite Valjean’s gentle reminders that they won’t be getting good food like this for quite a while. (Read: probably never, but he looks so sincere that Grantaire doesn’t bother reminding him of that.) 

And then, it’s time to get the scores. Cosette and Courfeyrac have matching tens; the boy from Three—Marius—gets an eight. (Bahorel nods approvingly at Éponine, as though to tell her she’s chosen her companions well.) Grantaire tries to pay attention to the other scores, but it feels like there are tracker jackers buzzing around in his stomach as he waits for his own score, and he can’t focus on much besides continuing to breathe. 

It’s over in a moment. Six.

Éponine gets an eight.

He never expected he’d feel so relieved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We visit Enjolras.   
> The games, eventually, begin.

_Enjolras_

The television has been on in his house for days. Ever since Grantaire’s interview, the one where he’d told the entire world about his feelings, Enjolras worries that if he turns off the television, or switches it from the channel that has round the clock coverage of the games, he will miss something and Grantaire will be gone forever. The games haven’t even started yet, so it’s mostly inane chattering and interviews with citizens of the Capitol, who all seem absolutely thrilled at the thought of a new show. 

Grantaire’s little sister has taken to showing up at his house, and sometimes, to falling asleep on his couch with tear tracks on her face. He always lets her in without question. On the day the scores are revealed, he is particularly grateful for her presence. The worst part about it is that he doesn’t know what it is he should be hoping for. They go outside to watch the broadcast live with the rest of the district; the concept makes him nauseous, but now isn’t the time to draw attention to himself. He needs to fly under the radar as long as Grantaire is a contender in these games—so that he can have a hope in hell of helping in whatever way he can.

As they watch, he finds himself taking her hand in some small attempt at comfort. She looks at him, her lips trembling, and hurls herself into his arms. “I can’t look,” she sobs, and he gently strokes her hair and watches for her, even though he wishes he didn’t have to.

“Six,” he says, when he’s seen it. Everything feels hollow, suddenly, and he has no idea whether this is something he should celebrate or not. Grantaire’s is not the lowest score, but it’s on the lower end. He imagines Grantaire, wherever he is, watching the broadcast and scoffing, making some kind of offhand, self-deprecating comment, and wants to throw up.

“Is that good?” his sister asks, clutching Enjolras so hard it hurts.

“It’s not bad,” he says carefully, even though he’s not sure if he’s lying or not. “It’s not bad at all.”

They’re up the whole night without meaning to be, both uncomfortably aware that every second brings them closer to the dawn, closer to the beginning of the games. On the television, all anyone will talk about is the betting pool they have going, to determine the victors. There are men and women in ridiculous clothing rambling inanely about strategies, comparing this year’s contestants to the ones of previous years, and speculating on the order of deaths. Enjolras wishes he could turn it off, but he is hyperaware of every sound, desperate to hear anything of Grantaire. Whenever he comes up, it’s in conjunction with a mention of Enjolras, which seems to have garnered people’s sympathies, but not their belief that he’ll actually do well in the games. Enjolras can only pray that sympathy will be enough to win Grantaire sponsors.

“You shouldn’t be listening to this,” he says, looking at Grantaire’s sister. 

“I’m not leaving,” she says stubbornly. “He’s my brother. I want to know.”

“These people aren’t always right.” _And I hope to God they’re wrong now._ Grantaire’s stats, at the moment, place his death somewhere toward the middle—after the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, but nowhere near victory. No one seems to be betting on him to do much of anything, and no one, as of yet, seems to be interested in sponsoring him. _It should be me. I wish it were._

“I know,” she says, quietly. “But…still.” 

“He wouldn’t want you to see it—”

“He wouldn’t want me to watch him killing people and possibly dying, either, but none of us have a choice,” she snaps, and reminds Enjolras so much of Grantaire in that moment that he is struck dumb. 

“You’re right.”

She stays. They worry. Time passes. The games draw ever nearer.

_Éponine_

This room is nicer than everything she’s ever had, put together. She hates it. 

Sighing quietly, she gets up and pads, barefoot, out into the hallway. There’s a light on in Grantaire’s room, and she almost goes inside. Her hand is on the doorknob, even. 

What good will it do? The truth of it is, she realizes, that going inside is only going to make everything worse. It’s only going to remind her that her best friend isn’t part of her alliance, and that even if he were, that there is literally a zero percent chance of both of them coming home.

No. No, it’s better to start to remove herself now, so that it will hurt less in the long run.

She goes back to her room and closes the door.

_Grantaire_

He paints the whole night. There is no shortage of supplies in this room; he’s not sure why, but he’s not complaining. He should sleep, probably. But maybe it’s better if he doesn’t. Maybe if everything has the strange haze of sleep deprivation hanging around it, he won’t be able to think as much about what he’s doing, and what’s being done to him. And dammit, these probably are his last hours, and he will spend them however he fucking pleases, thanks.

The night passes faster than he could have imagined, and before long, Valjean is knocking on his door and steering him down the hall toward breakfast, and he feels like live snakes are writhing around in his stomach.

“Okay,” says Bahorel, when he and Éponine are both in the kitchen, poking listlessly at their food. “You both have plans. Do not forget your plans. Do not worry about the Cornucopia. Figure a way to hydrate immediately. Stick to your alliances as long as possible, but don’t ever trust them fully. If you can, be the one to break them first, it gives you an advantage.” He stops for a moment, drains his glass and fills it again. “Last minute questions?”

They are silent. He sighs, and drags his fingers through his tangled hair. “Okay. Just…look out for yourselves, alright? I’m gonna do my damnedest to help you out from here.”

From there on out, he seems to only register things in bits and pieces: getting dressed. Grabbing Éponine in one last fierce hug. Saying goodbye to the stylists and makeup artists who had attempted to make him appealing to an audience he’s about ninety percent sure doesn’t give much of a damn anyway. Being maneuvered onto a platform, and warned that should he leave it—or drop anything off of it, as though he bothered bringing anything anyway—before the countdown ends, he will be immediately killed. Panicking as the platform starts to ascend. Horror-visions of himself falling, failing before the games even begin.

 

_Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven…_

_Boom._

The sound of the explosion is muffled, and completely disproportionate to its size; the ball of fire is so large that the redheaded male from Twelve wavers slightly on his own platform as he leans sideways to avoid the flames, looking sickened, but unsurprised. Where the girl from Twelve had stood, there is now nothing but a faintly smoldering pile of ash. Grantaire lurches, alarmed, and barely manages to catch himself. Shaking violently, he works to swallow the bile that had risen in his throat. The sound of the cannon drowns out the rest of the countdown, and for a moment, everything is still. 

The girl from Five is the first one to realize that the countdown is over, and she bolts across the field, heading straight for the Cornocopia. The rest follow soon after, streaking across the grass. In the few seconds it takes Grantaire’s body to catch up, he sees at least three people stumble and fall. He runs in the other direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'M SORRY.  
> Three guesses who the male from Twelve is... :D  
> As always, my tumblr url matches my username here, do feel free to come yell at me.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long this is going to be, nor how it's going to end. I am, in fact, winging it as I go. Wish me luck...  
> (I'm on tumblr under the same name, if you want to come yell at me.)


End file.
